


And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You know, I spent a year mourning you,” John says and finally looks up at Sherlock. “A whole year; might have been more if not for Mary. Hell, I could be still up there locked in my room right now if not for Mary.” He sits up in his chair, leaning toward Sherlock with every word. “I was a fucking ghost. I walked around this city and didn’t see a bloody thing but a giant hole where you used to be.”</i>
</p><p>Sherlock returns after three years to a less then pleased John who is now engaged to Mary Morstan. Sherlock and John and Mary figure out how they all connect now, who loves who and where this leaves them with Sherlock back from the dead to face all the pain he caused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm five years ago and three thousand miles away

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are hundreds of 'after the 3 years' fics out there but I had to write my own. <3 Also the song which pretty much fueled this whole story and the title is: [Bones of You](https://youtu.be/-r3Bs_KkP94)
> 
> I have done a rewrite of this story since after a year and a prequel I decided it could be so much better. You can read it [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/884688)

Sherlock steps out of the cab and stares at the black door of 221B. He hasn’t stood on this street, in front of this building, in front of this most important door in three years. It feels more like coming home than any house his parents ever owned.

Sherlock swallows and flips up the collar of his coat against the cold. He hears John’s voice in his mind making a snarky comment about cheekbones but it’s not enough to chase the nerves away. He tries to tell himself he has no reason to be nervous but that is plain idiocy. Anyone would be angry at someone who made them believe they were dead.

“Better late than never, perhaps?” Sherlock mutters to himself.

Sherlock strides over to the door. He pulls out his keys but stops short. The door knob is different thus the lock. Sherlock shakes his head and pockets the keys, old habits. Instead he knocks sharply – after six PM now, someone should be home. Sherlock knocks again after ten seconds then two seconds later the door opens and a short woman with medium length, blond hair looks up at him.

“Hello.” She smiles politely, hand on the door. “Yes?”

Sherlock frowns. “Who are you?”

She pulls back slightly in surprise. “Who... who am I? Well, I live....” Then her eyes go wide. “Oh my god, you’re... you’re... oh god, you really are! You look just like the picture.” She stares, opening and closing her mouth a few times before sputtering on. “John used... used to say at the beginning that maybe...” She blows out a puff of air and her hand falls off the door frame. “Shit.”

Sherlock clicks his teeth with annoyance. “I take it you must be John’s present girlfriend.”

She cocks her head then smiles, but it’s wholly different than the one from before. “Fiancée, actually.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows fly up. “Fiancée?”

“Fiancée.”

Sherlock grimaces. “Interesting.”

She frowns back at him. “Not as interesting as _you_ back from the dead, I think.”

“Are you going to let me in or do I need push my way past?”

She stares at him for a moment, jaw clenched, then nods stiffly. “Come on.”

She turns and starts up the steps, leaving Sherlock to close the door and follow her. Sherlock glances around briefly, notices the wallpaper has changed to a plain off white, then steps up the stairs. He reaches the top just as she calls for John.

“We have a guest!”

“Not your mother I assume, Mary?” John calls back from the kitchen and Sherlock nearly has to grip the door frame to keep from falling over at the sound of John’s voice.

“No,” Mary says quietly, glancing back at Sherlock.

Sherlock peers over her head into the flat to see a completely different space from the one he’d left three years ago. The wallpaper has changed to pale blue paint which matches the white curtains peppered with small roses. Brown carpet covers the floor and all the furniture now appears to be from the same catalog – creams and browns made from heavy fabric to withstand stains and consistent wear. A low coffee table sits in front of the fireplace and the bookshelves have been reduced to only one in the corner by the door.

“Right, tea then,” John says as he comes into the room from the kitchen carrying a tray. “Three enough?”

Then his eyes lock onto Sherlock. 

His gaze feels like falling into ice water and Sherlock speaks as steadily as he can, “Hello, John.”

The tray slides right off of John hands to hit the floor. The teapot shatters on the table by the fireplace and sprays hot tea everywhere. Mary jumps back and bumps into one of the cream chairs against the right wall. The tea cups roll in all directions, one knocking into the couch between the windows, while the spoons fling toward the walls, one going back into the kitchen. The last piece of china rolls on its side and comes to a stop at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock stays still and holds his breath until John takes a large unsteady step backward, bracing one hand against the mantel – no skull or knives to worry about cutting himself on anymore.

“You’re alive...” John whispers.

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“You’re bloody alive,” John gasps like he’s drowning.

“Yes, yes, I am,” Sherlock repeats because he knows the more times John hears his voice the more real Sherlock will be.

John lets himself sag against the fireplace and stares at Sherlock. He breathes erratically, his body wanting to run away with him but John trying to force calm. Sherlock takes a step forward then stops, unsure.

“John...” Mary says quietly.

John’s eyes tick to her then back to Sherlock.

“Do you... do you want me to....” She glances at Sherlock but doesn’t seem to know what to do either.

Sherlock clears his throat and holds his hands out to the sides in a clear gesture of surrender. “I can explain.”

John’s eyes flash and, before even Sherlock’s fast paced brain interprets the surge of anger, John leaps across the room to punch Sherlock in the face. Sherlock stumbles backward and Mary jumps out of the way again with a high squeak. John completely ignores her and punches Sherlock hard twice more until he falls to the ground, just missing one cream colored chair and knocking over a side table with a crash.

“You can explain?” John screams. “You can explain!”

“Wait –” Sherlock holds up his hand to try and regain control – he should have expected a storm.

Instead John jumps on top of Sherlock, grabs Sherlock’s shoulders and slams him down into the floor. Sherlock hears a cracking noise he cannot pinpoint as himself or the floor. He groans and tries to twist out of John’s grasp but John has him securely pinned down.

“You can explain? You can explain to me where you have been? Why you – why you were dead!?”

John keeps on screaming and slams Sherlock against the floor again, shaking Sherlock and shaking himself as he grips Sherlock so hard John’s nails bite through the fabric of Sherlock’s coat.

“John, stop!” Sherlock hears Mary cry but it sounds faint with John still shouting.

“You were dead! Dead! You made me believe it! I watched you fall! Three years!” He sits up straight and Sherlock feels tears splash against his face. John gasps hard. “Damn it!” He suddenly snarls and punches Sherlock in the face again. “You think you can fucking explain that to me!”

“Please...” Sherlock gasps, putting up his hands trying to protect himself.

John grabs the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and shakes him again. “You can explain why you would do that to me? You can? Really!” John shakes him and shakes him. “Why would you do that to me? You bloody fucking bastard! Why would you do that to me?”

Suddenly John flies back and, through the blur of his senses, Sherlock sees Mary hauling John away by his shoulders. John barely fights her before screaming again, a sound so horrible, so full of anguish and anger that Sherlock flips onto his knees to stop it, to do something, to say something, to apologize.

“Get out!” Mary shouts at Sherlock.

“Please, let me –”

“Get out!” She screams, putting herself between John crouching on the floor and Sherlock in the same position. She points violently at the door. “Now!”

Sherlock jumps up despite the pain shooting through his jaw and the ache in his back – no concussion but bruising one hundred percent sure – then all but runs out the door. He nearly falls down the steps with the sound of Mary’s shushing noises and John’s groans following him out. Sherlock bursts through the door and slams it closed behind him. 

Out on the street, Sherlock spits out blood and pants, trying to get any air he can into his lungs.

This is not what was supposed to happen, this is not the avenue Sherlock wanted his return to take. He never expected smiles and sunshine but he also did not expect such a wild animal of emotions.

Suddenly, a black car pulls up to the curb and the back door swings open.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice snaps.

Sherlock blinks with surprise – CCTV maybe or has Mycroft had a man watching 221B all these years? He spits out blood again then jumps into the car.

–––––

“For your face.”

Sherlock looks up to see a bag of ice wrapped in a towel held out in Mycroft’s hand. Sherlock takes the ice without complaint and presses it against the side of his face that currently hurts more. Mycroft steps across the room then sits down in a chair facing Sherlock.

“And how long have you known?” Sherlock asks.

“Over two years.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I suppose I should have asked how long you didn’t know.”

“Did you really think I would trust the first autopsy and a next day newspaper article?”

Sherlock scowls and leans back in his chair. “Enjoy cutting into my fake corpse, did you?”

Mycroft sighs and rubs his forehead. “Save your dramatics, Sherlock. As much as you like to make everyone believe that you are the smarter Holmes, we both know –”

“IQ tests mean nothing.”

“Neither does showing off!”

Sherlock shakes his head angrily then hisses at the pain in his face. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow but makes no other sign of worry. Sherlock considers throwing the bag of ice at Mycroft’s face.

“Her name is Mary Morstan,” Mycroft starts.

“Don’t tell me.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock, of course you want to know.”

Sherlock frowns and glances away at the wall but says nothing.

“She teaches English at Oxford,” Mycroft continues. “She and John have been together for two years last month and –”

“And engaged already,” Sherlock interrupts, “moves fast, doesn’t she?”

“If you’re going to demonize her, Sherlock, do your background research first, won’t you?”

“Oh, forget about her!” Sherlock snarls. “She’s not the...” Sherlock sighs and drops the bag of ice from his face, his voice falling to a whisper, “not the problem.”

“What did you expect after three years, Sherlock?”

“Less bruising, perhaps.”

Mycroft makes a ‘hmm’ noise and drums his fingers once on the arm of his chair. Sherlock lifts the bag of ice back up to his face. They sit in silence, neither looking at the other. All Sherlock sees in front of him is John’s face – wild and screaming and full of tears and such sounds that make Sherlock feel as though he might actually crack into pieces right where he sits now. 

“He wouldn’t stop screaming at me,” Sherlock murmurs, “Mary had to pull him off me – _she_ had to stop him from hurting _me_.”

“He wants to hurt you like you hurt him.” Sherlock looks up at Mycroft. Mycroft folds his hands together on his lap and only now does Sherlock see the anger in Mycroft too. “You have no idea what happened to him when you died.”

–––––

Sherlock returns to Baker Street the next day – two PM, Saturday, Mary out – and knocks on the door, stepping back immediately to keep more than John’s reach between himself and the door. The door opens so quickly one would think John had been waiting.

“Sherlock,” John says, holding the door and appearing far calmer than the day before.

“John.”

He looks Sherlock up and down once then points to Sherlock’s face. “You should have put ice on that.”

“I did.”

John only raises his eyebrows and steps out of the doorway. “Come in then.”

They walk up the stairs then back into the flat which once was home and now hosts a whole new life. John strides across the room, doesn’t offer to take Sherlock’s coat. (He won’t be staying long)? Sherlock’s eyes tick around the room again; he sees a clock on the wall above the two cream chairs which so nearly featured in the bout of yesterday. Above the couch, between the windows hang two generic pieces of artwork – woodland scene and an ocean scene. Then Sherlock turns to John waiting next to the chairs by the fireplace. Sherlock notices a television in the far corner set in a new shelving unit fixed to the wall where one of the bookshelves used to be; framed photos and knick knacks adorne the other shelves, Sherlock’s face with a soft smile in one frame.

“Stop analyzing and sit down,” John mutters.

Sherlock’s head snaps around back to John because his voice sounded so... familiar. Sherlock walks over to the chair closer to the windows – new chair in the spot where his old chair always sat. Tea for two waits on the coffee table between the chairs – dent where the teapot hit yesterday in the wood. Sherlock sits down and picks up his teacup. John sits across from him but does not touch his cup.

“So,” John begins, voice disconnected and very business, “you said you could explain?”

Sherlock puts his cup down without taking a sip. “All right.”

Sherlock tells John about Jim – Moriarty, ever the enemy’s name – about the threats, about their lives hanging in the balance, about all the fail safe plans which had to go through and how he had to die, but not really die, to save the people he cared about; how he spent all this time unraveling Jim’s web and dismantling each strand; how he spent three years trying to find his way back until each tendril of the vast network was eradicated. 

John watches Sherlock silently as he speaks. When Sherlock finishes he folds his hands and waits for whichever side John chooses to come down on.

“I see,” John replies.

Sherlock waits again but John does not go on. Sherlock tilts his head. “Is that all?”

“What more do you want me to say, Sherlock? Everything you said makes perfect sense, completely logical and thorough.”

Sherlock frowns. “But you feel something else.”

John sighs and his shoulders sag. He puts his hand over his eyes. “Human beings are more than logic, Sherlock, even you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You called me, Sherlock,” John sits up and leans forward. “You called me, on your mobile, from that rooftop to say goodbye.”

“I had to make you believe,” Sherlock insists but his voice sounds more like a rasp. “You had to believe so I could... so I could protect you.”

“No, you didn’t. You could have just jumped and I still would have thought you just as dead without your goodbye ‘note.’ It wouldn’t have made a difference to my safety if you jumped or were pushed or whatever I might have assumed without your call.” John pauses and his hands clench. “But you waited, you waited until I came back so you could call and so that I could watch you fall from that building.”

Sherlock stares at John but finds nothing to say. So John says it for him.

“I can’t quite decide if you thought you would be able to give me a fresh start, have me just write you off as a ‘fake’ and no longer care or if maybe you thought if I actually witnessed your fall then I wouldn’t search too hard to try to figure out just what happened. Either way it’s particularly cruel.”

“John, I was not trying to be cruel, I was –”

“What you did, Sherlock, was think with your brain and nothing else.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “That makes no sense, John.”

John huffs quietly. “Sherlock, do you remember how you felt when you thought Irene was truly dead?” Sherlock clears his throat but it does nothing to stop the memory rush. “Multiply that by a hundred and you’ll be in the right neighborhood.” John shrugs. “Maybe.”

“It wasn’t easy for me either, John,” Sherlock suddenly says. “I wasn’t happy.”

John shrugs. “Maybe, but at least you didn’t believe I was dead.”

“No, I pretended to die so you didn’t die for real,” Sherlock replies bluntly.

John shakes his head and sighs. Then suddenly he tilts his head back and laughs. Sherlock stares but John just chuckles more.

“What is funny?”

“This,” John chuckles again and motions between them, “it’s like any argument we’ve had before, you all up in your head and me having to explain normal human reactions and emotions.”

“Ah... I see?”

John puts his hand over his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Then he picks up his tea cup and takes a big sip. He puts it down then claps his hands on his thighs. “I don’t know, this all feels so surreal, maybe I should actually be happy.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes, this time you used your intellect and your logic to achieve an emotionally motivated end.”

Sherlock swallows and lets his eyes wander around the room. “Well...”

“Well,” John repeats.

Sherlock turns his eyes back to John and they stare at each other. John takes another sip of his tea then puts down the cup.

“I’m still angry with you.” He points at Sherlock. “Very.”

“All right,” Sherlock nods.

“Okay.” John stands up. “On your way then.”

“I... now? Already?”

John smiles and Sherlock notices how tight it spreads at the corners. “Sherlock, you have to take it in steps for me, all right?” His smile shifts a bit, as if it might crack right off his face. “Please.”

Sherlock nods and stands. “Steps.”

They walk together to the door. John remains in the flat to let Sherlock find his own way down the stairs. Sherlock turns and reaches out for John’s hand but John takes a step back. Sherlock’s hand falls to his side and he looks down at the carpet.

“I missed you, John,” Sherlock says then pivots and walks down the stairs.

He hears, “you… bloody bastard,” follow him out.

–––––

“Sherlock…?”

“You’ve changed your mobile number.” John stares at Sherlock blankly from the doorway. Sherlock sighs. “Thus I was unable to call you.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but decides not to go into the ease of texting or calling over taking a taxi through London. “I have a case.”

John’s eyes fly open. “What?”

“A case, a criminal case, surely you remember.”

“Sherlock you’ve barely been back a week and most, if not all, of London believes you’re dead. How do you have a case?”

Sherlock smirks. “I know where Lestrade lives.”

“You went to his house!”

“I’d rather not have all of Scotland Yard knowing my status of alive so they decide to reopen any case they consider me at fault for.”

John shakes his head. “But you went to –“

“He was sure to have a case he needed help on, that’s his entire career.”

“Did you give him a heart attack?”

“He broke a coffee mug.”

John sighs. “Responsible for a lot of broken dishware at this rate, aren’t you?”

“Are you coming then?”

“On what?”

Sherlock grumbles with frustration. “The case, John, how many times must I say it?”

John’s clenches his jaw and holds up his hand to his mouth. “You want me to come on a case,” he points quickly at Sherlock, “with you?”

“Why else would I be here?” Sherlock answers, wondering how in the world John slid back so far on the intellectual scale during Sherlock’s absence.

“You want –” John cuts himself off and balls one hand into a fist. He makes a choked off growling sort of noise and Sherlock instinctually feels the need to step back. “I’m not coming with you, Sherlock.”

“John, you know I need –“

“I know exactly what you need,” John snaps. “But _I_ need to not come with you.”

“John, I know it has been a long time but –“

“Yes, Sherlock, yes it has and in case you hadn’t noticed I’ve moved on.”

Sherlock’s hands twitch. “I notice everything.”

“Oh, you think you do.” John waves both hands in the air between them in a clear gesture of ‘no.’ “But you don’t and we can’t just jump back three years.”

“Why not?”

“Why – Sherlock!”

Sherlock tilts his head. “You said ‘steps,’ John, this is the next one; back to what I am, a detective.”

John shakes his head and stares at Sherlock for a long moment. He runs a hand through his hair. “You’d think I wouldn’t be able to forget how you can be such an idiot but apparently…”

Sherlock slides both hands into his pockets. “I know you remember how much you enjoyed our cases; how much you want to do it all again.” He smiles.

John does not smile back. “Sherlock, just because I understand why you did what you did three years ago does not mean I’ve forgiven you.”

Sherlock frowns. “I didn’t ask you to forgive me.”

John shrugs. “Maybe you should have.” He steps back into the hall, pushing the door closed. “Enjoy your case, Sherlock.”

–––––

Sherlock paces back and forth across Mycroft’s living room, “The problem is Mary, what else could possibly be keeping him away? It’s Mary.”

Mycroft sits in a chair beside the window reading one of his three morning papers, silent as usual.

“The danger, the adventure, the puzzles, surely he misses it? How could he not? It was our whole lives. The case! The case, the puzzle, solving it all, what else would he have without that?”

Mycroft snorts derisively behind his paper.

“Oh yes, I’m sure sex with Ms. Morstan –“

“Dr. Morstan,” Mycroft mutters behind his paper. 

“– is pleasurable,” Sherlock continues, “but how important can that really be compared to everything I brought him?”

Mycroft’s paper flops down and he stares at Sherlock. Sherlock stops pacing to frown at Mycroft’s sarcastic stare. Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and Mycroft pulls his paper up again.

“How long did any of his girlfriends last before?” Sherlock flings both hands toward the ceiling and whirls around again to pace the room length wise instead of width. “He’s tried to replace me with this one. As you said, she teaches at Oxford so she must be a shade smarter than most of the idiots in this city.”

Mycroft sighs.

“So, he’s put her in my place and thinks it’s just as good, only he has sex this time,” Sherlock goes on, putting a negative emphasis on the word ‘sex.’ “And perhaps less danger which in his mind he thinks is good because he’s convinced himself that’s the proper, normal thing.”

“So, have sex with him and avoid being shot at then you’ve won him back, is that your solution?” Mycroft asks deadpan.

Sherlock stops in his tracks and throws the most burning glare he can at Mycroft’s newspaper. Sadly, the paper refrains from bursting into flames.

“I don’t need to win him back.” At that Mycroft slowly lowers the paper and gives Sherlock a questioning look. Sherlock smiles widely. “I simply need to get rid of her.”

–––––

When Mary opens the door of her Oxford office, Sherlock awaits her on the other side. Mary gasps in surprise, one book slipping off the pile in her arms, which Sherlock catches before it hits the floor.

“Sherlock… what…” She stares at him then takes the book from his hand when Sherlock offers it back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you, Dr. Morstan.”

She blinks slowly. “Really?”

“Believe me, professor, I spend as little time as possible in any university setting except for laboratory use. There can be no other reason for my presence.”

“Oh,” her face falls slightly, expression surprised. “I would have thought with how much you value intelligence you would love universities, especially one like Oxford.” She grins with pride.

“Universities full of professors clinging on to tenure far past their time of quality pontificating useless facts, often inaccurately, to wholly lack luster, uncomprehending students only attending classes to receive a grade so they can obtain a degree then promptly forget everything they supposedly learned from their tired professors?” Sherlock scoffs. “Oh, quite the type of place I’d enjoy.”

Mary blinks rapidly then clicks her teeth. “Wow, I heard you could be an asshole.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Coffee?”

“Carry the books then,” she says and dumps them into Sherlock’s arms.

Mary leads the way through the old corridors, down one flight of steps and into a lounge marked ‘Professors Only.’ She sweeps an archeology magazine off one table and points at it before walking over to the array of coffee makers – one espresso machine – lined up on the counter against the wall. Sherlock drops the four books on the table then pulls out a chair.

“Cream or sugar?” Mary asks.

“Black.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “How… adventurous of you.”

Sherlock does not respond – taunt at his cases with John, mockery of his work and behavior in the past, or simply trying to keep Sherlock off balance? She suspects his intentions. Sherlock sits down.

Five minutes of silence later, Mary sets two mugs down on the table and sits two seats away from Sherlock. “So, you’ve come to see me, Mr. Holmes, why?”

“Let’s not play games, Mary.” Sherlock shifts his mug aside with one gloved finger. “You know why I’m here.”

Mary blows on her coffee. “You want me gone?”

Sherlock smiles.

“I don’t see why. I would think you would be pleased to know that John is happy.”

“He’s not happy; he’s domesticated.”

“I’m sure his situation with you wasn’t domestic in the slightest.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise with surprise.

“Would you rather have found him locked up in his flat alone just waiting for you? Waiting for the dead to rise again?”

Sherlock tilts his head then smirks. “You’re not his first girlfriend and you probably won’t be his last. You all leave eventually.”

“I’m not his girlfriend; I’m his fiancée.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “And what makes you think I’ll just leave?”

“Because he won’t need you anymore now that I’m back.”

“Why is it mutually exclusive, me or you? You’re just friends, aren’t you?” She brushes one strand of hair behind her ear – a tell, not as confident as she sounds, suspects, worries, wants to hear a definite ‘only friends’ from his mouth.

Sherlock shrugs and does not answer her question. “There’s really no point to you, is there? So you split the rent but what other benefit do you really bring?” Sherlock pauses and waves a hand. “Apart from the obvious.”

Mary sets her mug down but does not blush or turn away with any embarrassment. “What do you bring that’s so much better?”

“A purpose, Dr. Morstan, something better than watching telly every night after work.” 

“Oh?” She says, voice slightly high and shrill. “Running around on cases that might get you killed, maybe for real this time around, fixing other people’s lives but not caring a wit about them while you do it and dragging John after you like a puppy is a worthy purpose?” Her voice rises but not quite shouting. “How was you bringing him down a peg every time you called him stupid or lied to him to prove a point or testing theories on him by drugging him up or worse any kind of valuable life? How are you something better for him?”

Sherlock lays his hands flat on the table. “Read the whole blog, have you?”

Mary rolls her eyes. “God, Sherlock, people in relationships do this thing called ‘talking’ in case you were unaware.”

“But you think you’re the better fit for his life?” Mary nods and Sherlock laughs with contempt. “You with the smoking habit, two younger sisters still financially dependent on your parents, a preoccupation with Wilde plays, more on the overweight side of –“

“Stop,” Mary holds up a hand, “do you think throwing around facts about me is going to make me turn tail and run? You could deduce the last time John and I had sex from what I’m wearing or whatever but that won’t make me hand John to you in my handbag!”

Sherlock glances at her fingernails. “It was four days ago.”

Mary huffs loudly. “I don’t care how you know what you know, Sherlock. I care about, John. If John decides he wants you back in his life then that is fine. That is his choice, not mine.” Sherlock cocks his head and furrows his eyebrows. Mary claps her hands together once then stands up. “What I do know, however, is that he’s not going to tell me to leave even if you two really do patch it all up.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock leans forward over the table, “are you really so sure about that?”

“Oh, I am, Sherlock.” She picks up the books they’d brought down from her office. “Because I know what’s happened in his life these past three years and I know what will happen if he goes back to his life being just about you.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’ll kill him.”

Sherlock’s confident footing shifts beneath him and he finds himself at a loss for words.

Mary stares at him and this time some real hate come through her words, “If he lets you take him down that road again, you’ll kill him for sure. You almost did last time.”

–––––

“You’re eating a lot.”

Sherlock glances up at John. “I asked you to lunch, one eats at lunch.”

“Yeah, it’s just… Well, I guess you’re not on a case right now then?”

Sherlock smiles. “Interested?”

“No.”

“Just finished a case, actually.”

John takes a bite of noodles and nods. “Successfully?”

Sherlock fixes John with a look. “When are they not?”

“Well, there was that time –“

“Mycroft was cheating.”

“What about –“

“And how is the hospital?” Sherlock interrupts, swallowing the last of his tea. “Good… working?”

“Okay.” John puts down his fork. “What is it?”

“What?” Sherlock shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I asked about your present job?”

“You hate small talk.”

“Do I?”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John insists.

Sherlock drops the farce. “How long are you going to keep this up? This little carbon copy ‘normal’ life?”

John sighs. “Sherlock…”

“I know you must miss it. Going to work, coming home, pub on Friday’s, telly each night, tea with her folks? What is that?”

“It’s life, Sherlock.”

Sherlock taps his fingers together. “Boring.”

John takes a drink of his water. “Fulfilling.”

“This is not you, John. That life is not you.”

“You just don’t want to do it alone,” John says, pointing at Sherlock with his fork, “You just want someone to say ‘amazing’ at the right times. You don’t _really_ need me.”

“Yes, I –” Sherlock stops himself and breathes slowly through his nose. “I don’t deal directly with Scotland Yard anymore and you are a doctor; the need is obvious.”

John stares at Sherlock, a slight twitch to his lip. “Can’t even admit it?” He huffs and takes a large bite of chicken, speaking again after he swallows. “This is your life, your obsession, your need to solve every puzzle which you find interesting, not mine.”

“You never said ‘I’d rather stay home,’” Sherlock reminds him. “You always came too.”

“Well, I’m not anymore, I can’t.” John puts his fork down. “I have a job, one that pays me. I have a fine life, a fiancée; Christ, I’m going to get married, Sherlock!”

Sherlock scoffs. “So, you’ll have the same boring life with the only change being a bit of jewelry?”

“Sherlock, stop it.”

Sherlock pushes on instead. “You don’t need her anymore, John. She filled a space but I’m back now.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice has gone hard, “don’t.”

Yet Sherlock does not desist. “You don’t need her; she’s not important.” Sherlock lays his hands flat on the table. “You could do something better, be part of something meaningful, be with me!”

“Enough!” John snaps too loud, banging his fist on the table. “I’m not going to let you hurt me again!” 

Sherlock rears back as if John punched him. “John…”

John stands up swiftly and marches away. “Lunch is on you.”

–––––

Sherlock stands beside Mycroft on the balcony of Mycroft’s office, a view of the Thames in the distance, people moving on the streets below. Sherlock taps ash off the end of his cigarette to float off into the air. Why use an ash tray when there’s far worse exhaust from cars pumping into the air? He hears Mycroft sigh but Mycroft isn’t exactly using the ash tray either so perhaps he should get down off his high horse.

“Why do people have to be so…”

“Difficult?” Mycroft finishes.

“Stubborn.”

Mycroft takes a drag of his cigarette then blows it out. “And here I thought you were going to come up with another clever synonym for ‘idiotic.’ What do you think of ‘moronic?’”

“Moronic works just as well.”

Mycroft turns his head toward Sherlock slightly. “Need I point out that stubborn and moronic are not synonyms?”

“They’re often paired,” Sherlock replies with another suck of smoke.

“Are we going to go on pretending you’re talking about society as a whole, Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowns and takes a deeper drag of his cigarette, almost at the filter now.

“John is allowed to have a life not completely centered around you. Did you really think everything would fall back three years like book pages?”

“Must you use metaphors?” Sherlock growls.

“You cannot force it.”

Sherlock sucks in the last of his cigarette then flicks if off the balcony with two fingers. “He’s just become too accustomed, stuck in normalcy. Someone has to pull him out.”

“You, of course?”

“He needs me. He’s only pretending he doesn’t.”

Mycroft stubs out his cigarette on the black metal rail, letting it fall off a second later. “Sherlock, you abandoned him; he had to move on.”

“I saved him.”

Mycroft smiles. “You chose your own peace of mind over his.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “What are you –“

“You let him suffer the pain of you dying rather than suffer the pain yourself of his death.”

“That is not fair, or even accurate. My death was fake; he would have died for real!”

“Oh, Sherlock, it was certainly real for him;” Mycroft straightens his tie and sighs, “for all of us.”

Sherlock turns to Mycroft and frowns. Then he reaches into Mycroft’s coat pocket and pulls out the pack of cigarettes. He pulls out one, tosses the pack back at Mycroft, and lights the cigarette with shaking hands.

–––––

Sherlock shows up at Baker Street at least once a week, more often two or three or four times.

“Coagulated blood at the scene, pair of scissors, blond hair clippings but the victim is a brunette.”

John bites a piece of toast. “Did you check for hair dye?”

“Of course.”

Mary brings Sherlock tea every time he comes by, the cup appears almost too fast for it to have been started as soon as he arrives. Sherlock suspects she keeps a thermos of the cheapest, bottom shelf brew she could find in the refrigerator and reheats it each time.

“How much sugar have you added in this cup, doctor?” Sherlock asks putting just enough mockery into the title.

Mary snaps her fingers. “You know, the spoon just keeps slipping!”

“Mrs. Hudson asked after you in her last letter.” John hands it over. “She called you a twat.”

“Likes being back in Florida that much, does she?”

Sherlock even appears at John’s hospital, poking his head into John’s office regardless if he’s busy or not.

“Dog bites versus cat bites?”

John’s patient whirls around. “I… I don’t have either one?”

John peers up from the chart on his desk. “In regards to infection?”

“No, size of bite.”

“I... shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“Why don’t you come and see?” Sherlock wiggles his eyebrows.

“No,” John points at his patient then at Sherlock, “close the door.” But Sherlock sees John smiling down into his paperwork.

John texts later: _Could it be a possum or something else? Fox maybe?_

Sometimes Sherlock appears for completely un-case related reasons – not excuses, not invented errands to see John, to be near him, to be back in their flat – completely, necessary and important reasons.

“You’ve turned my bedroom into a study?”

Mary yelps and drops a stack of student papers in surprise when Sherlock appears in the kitchen. John scoots his chair back to see around Mary picking papers up off the floor.

“Did you make yourself a key?” John asks.

“Obviously.”

“You – what?” Mary stands up. “How?”

“When you handed me the stack of books at Oxford; I used your distraction with the motion to take the keys from your pocket, went and made copies after you left the lounge, returned the keys to your office desk while you were teaching your three PM lecture. Simple.”

“What?” Mary stares. “But that… that was over two months ago!”

“A study?” Sherlock says around her to John.

John shrugs. “We didn’t need two bedrooms.”

Sometimes John scowls and ignores and shouts at Sherlock.

“You can’t just come over here every day and expect me listen to you like I used to.”

Sherlock sits on the couch and props his feet up on the arm. “John, you can spare five minutes to listen, I think best whe –“

John knocks him off the couch. “When you don’t have me pushing you onto the floor? Oh dear, I’d think so. Out.”

“John, really, I think you’d be interested to hear –“

“This is not three years ago, Sherlock, I can’t!” And if John’s voice cracks then Sherlock makes no comment. 

Sometimes John smirks into his book or smiles into his patient files, sometimes he laughs.

“Oh, please, no he didn’t,” John only laughs harder, “’I knew it?’ Did he even sound convincing?”

“Anderson never sounds convincing.”

John snorts and keeps on chuckling. “I thought you didn’t want all of Scotland Yard knowing… what did you say, ‘your status as alive?’”

“Hmm, well it could be amusing to see how he tries to convince everyone else.”

John shakes his head. “You’re going to blackmail him, aren’t you?”

Sherlock grins. 

(Maybe Mary even smiles, laughs along with them from her seat by the fireplace away from them on the couch but maybe Sherlock ignores the sound).

Sometimes, once in a great while – a lucky time, a happy time, a perfect time – John will say yes and come. He’ll come for an hour, one autopsy, twenty minutes at a particularly interesting crime scene but he’ll come.

“I have to be back to work in fifteen; we have to be quick.”

“We’ll only need ten minutes.”

John grins. “I’ll time you.”

John bends over a body, gloves on his hands, poking at abrasions and checking temperature. He mutters under his breath and glances up at Sherlock when he notices something significant, does not even need to say out loud what he knows because Sherlock understands.

“Time of death?” Sherlock asks.

John smiles and pulls off his gloves. “If you guessed ten to twelve hours ago you get the prize.”

Sherlock nods. “I never guess.”

Sometimes... sometimes Mary stops him at the first landing after he lefts himself in, blocking his path with her small, one point six meter frame.

“He’s not here.”

Sherlock hears other footsteps, hears a door close, sees keys, a coat. “Yes, he is.”

“Well, then maybe he’s not here when it comes to you.”

“I only need to –”

“Leave,” Mary finishes for him and her voice shakes even as her face stays determined. “Please.”

If Sherlock listens, strains through floor boards, he will hear a fist hit plaster.

–––––

Sherlock bursts through the door to 221B sometime after nine at night, bounds up the stairs and stops in the door way. Mary looks up from her laptop in the far chair, eyes widening. John walks out of the kitchen and stops short – blood at Sherlock’s hairline, dirt on his face, another splatter of blood on his white shirt (not his).

“Sherlock!”

“John, I need you –”

“I’m coming.”

John strides over to the couch then steps up on it. He reaches above the book case and pulls down a lock box. Yanking a key from the key ring in his pocket, John opens the box, pulls out his gun and one clip. He looks up at Sherlock and snaps the two together.

“John...” Mary says quietly.

He looks back at her. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

Then John turns back to Sherlock and they run down the stairs. Out on the street a taxi waits, Sherlock opens the back door for John then climbs in after him. The cab takes off down the street.

“So?” John asks.

“Thinks he lost me, ducked down an alley in the shadow of a bus but we can cut him off – Left here, left!”

John scoffs. “You’re right in the middle of a chase?”

“Why else would I have blood on my shirt?”

“I can give you a whole list.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Yes, a chase.”

John touches Sherlock brow, turns Sherlock’s head by his chin to assess the wound then let’s go. “And you stop to get me?”

Sherlock smiles. “You have the gun.”

They twist down half a dozen more streets in the cab, their driver shooting confused looks at Sherlock with every turn but never failing to follow the directions.

“Stop!” Sherlock shouts suddenly. “Stop, stop!”

The cab jerks to a halt and Sherlock leaps out of the cab, John throwing money and racing after him.

“Where?” John shouts after Sherlock.

“Just check for the bloody nose,” Sherlock says over his shoulder.

John starts to laugh just as Sherlock breaks into a run, another man ten meters ahead knocking over a restaurant table. Sherlock closes the distance, just as the man skids into an alley. Sherlock nearly loses his footing but John behind him stays level and grabs Sherlock’s coat to stop his fall. They turn together down the alley.

“Stop!” John shouts at the suspect still running down the alley.

The man knocks over a set of trash cans into their path. John careens into one, smashing onto the ground with a yelp. Sherlock jumps over John and keeps running.

“Come on, John!”

“Prat,” John groans but Sherlock glances back and sees John already on his feet again.

Sherlock turns around just in time to be clotheslined by their suspect. Sherlock barely has a chance to shout in pain before his back slams into the ground and his head hits with a crack he knows is all bone. Stars flash in his eyes and everything suddenly blacks out. 

Then vision rushes back before Sherlock can tell the length of time and he hears John’s voice. “ – now, I said!”

Sherlock sees John standing above him, gun held out in front of him.

“You’re not cop, what can you –“

“I can point a gun at you which I am, if you’ve noticed. So back off and hands up!”

Sherlock groans, head throbbing, neck aching and rolls onto his knees.

“You all right?” John asks without looking down. Sherlock moans a reply. “Call Lestrade, we have your suspect now, Sherlock.”

Despite the pain in multiple parts of his body, Sherlock smiles wide and feels the rush of three years ago like sun light soaking through cloth as burning, warm, fantastic fire.

Lestrade arrives seven minutes after Sherlock calls him, John keeping their man – Robert Stevens is his name – pinned to the wall at gun point, eyes never wavering. Sherlock disappears into another twist in the alley once more cop cars arrive. John smiles and hands off the man to Lestrade before he can be spotted by anyone else other than the inspector.

“Getting you back into it, is he?” Sherlock hears Lestrade ask John before he leaves.

“Maybe a little,” John replies then appears a moment later at the mouth of alley where Sherlock leans against the wall.

“We should push off.” Sherlock peers down at his phone and texts his client about the success, informing them to check at the police station for more information. “Though the force may be slow when it comes to intelligent deduction they are sticklers for procedure at crime scenes.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Lead on.”

They walk side by side down the alley, out onto the main street then they cross over into another alley. After such an obvious run in the public eye, Sherlock would rather travel the back alley path. He glances out of the corner of his eye at John. John smiles as they walk then glances up at Sherlock.

John grins more. “That was fun.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Forgotten that, had you?”

“No.” John stops walking. “I hadn’t.”

Sherlock stops a step ahead of John and stares back at him. 

John moves – or is it Sherlock, is it both – then John is in Sherlock’s arms, one of John’s hands on Sherlock’s hip and they’re kissing. Sherlock stops thinking about ‘who, what, when’ and grips John’s jaw, kissing John with every second of three lost years. John tastes like sweat, tastes like memory, and his hand curves around Sherlock’s back so there can be no space between them. Sherlock shifts and pushes John back against the wall making John hiss with surprise into the kiss but they don’t stop. Sherlock kisses John right into the wall, John’s head against the bricks and Sherlock fists one gloved hand in John’s shirt wishing there were more walls around them.

“Sherlock,” John whispers into the kiss and it sounds like love.

John moves his hands to Sherlock’s cheeks with fingers against his neck, cradling Sherlock’s face. John kisses softer, slower, more like cinema romance. 

Then John moves his head to the side and the kissing stops. Sherlock breathes slowly against John’s hot skin, one glove still on John’s neck. Every time he breathes, Sherlock feels John’s chest move with his. He drops his hand from John’s neck to his chest and counts heart beats – one and two and three alive.

John pushes Sherlock back slightly by Sherlock’s hips. They look at each other again but John’s face is not the expression of happiness Sherlock expected. Instead his mouth is a straight line, like there are too many sad things he wants to say.

“John…”

John shakes his head and moves away. “I’m sorry.”

“John.” Sherlock keeps as much of the pleading out of his voice as possible. “No, John.”

John just shakes his head again. “No, it’s too late.” He puts up a staying hand then turns and walks back to the road.

Sherlock watches John climb into a cab and ride away without moving.

––––

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock climbs out of his own cab in front of 221B. He glances up at the windows of the flat – lights still on, the shadow of someone standing near enough to the window, Mary. Sherlock unlocks the front door and slowly climbs the stairs. When he stops in the doorway Mary looks over at him from where she stands by the window. John in the chair near her does not look up.

“What happened?” She asks Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes tick to John, back to Mary, then back again to John. He waits for John – his John – to start because he is the one who said ‘no.’

“What happened?” Mary repeats insistently.

“You know, I spent a year mourning you,” John says and finally looks up at Sherlock. “A whole year; might have been more if not for Mary. Hell, I could be still up there locked in my room right now if not for Mary.” He sits up in his chair, leaning toward Sherlock with every word. “I was a fucking ghost. I walked around this city and didn’t see a bloody thing but a giant hole where you used to be.”

“I was always going to come back,” Sherlock says quietly.

“But I didn’t know that, did I?”

“I had to save you.”

“Save me from what exactly?” John cocks his head. “From death? Because I can tell you there are worse things than that. I buried you and you think you saved me?”

“I would have had to bury _you_!” Sherlock snaps. “Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you!”

“But that’s not just it.” John stands up, pointing a finger at Sherlock. “You still had to beat him.”

“No, to stop him, I had –“

“Shooting himself wasn’t enough for you, that wasn’t ‘solved’ or whatever was going on in your head. You had to really beat him.”

“It wasn’t safe for his network to remain –“

“Wasn’t safe?” John barks. “Do you think what you left behind was safe?”

Sherlock mouth clamps shut over a retort because there is no mistaking John’s meaning.

“But that didn’t happen, John, okay?” Mary interrupts causing both men to turn to her. “And you got through it.”

John sighs and stares at the floor. “I know.”

Mary glances at Sherlock. “I know you had good intentions but… you didn’t do just what you thought you did.”

“I couldn’t let you die if I could save you,” Sherlock gasps, looking only at John. “Can’t you see that?”

“Sherlock, you half killed me anyway when you died.” He looks up and it’s not anger anymore, just pain. “You were my whole world. It was you and me every single day; running through the streets, quick meals grabbed in whatever place was closest before we ran off again to find every clue; case after case with people that only blew in for a day or less. The only constants were you and me, just us.” John shakes his head. “I had girlfriends, yeah, other friends, but they were just little tiny pieces compared to the whole of us.”

Sherlock stares silently, his mouth dry, and his hands shake until he curls them into fists. “But…”

“Sherlock… you…” John sighs heavily. “Three years and you couldn’t have found a way?” Anger flashes again for a moment. “You couldn’t have found some way to just tell me you were alive?”

“I should have,” Sherlock admits – finally admits a wrong, “I should have found a way but I didn’t. I was trying to protect you.” John huffs and looks away but Sherlock presses on. “I can’t go back and change that, and neither can you, but we have this now. We have now.”

“Sherlock…” John groans quietly.

Sherlock takes a step forward closer to John. “We can start over. We –“

“You know, I loved you,” John snaps suddenly and Sherlock freezes. “Against every instinct which told me this was a bad idea, to stop it, I loved you anyway; not just your brilliance, everything about you, even the insane, frustrating, idiotic parts of you!”

“John…” Mary whispers.

Sherlock swallows. “I didn’t kn –“

“Oh yes, you did!” John shouts. “Because you did too! And now you say ‘we can start over’ but we never started in the first place!”

For a moment full, raw emotion like he never feels shoots through Sherlock’s body. “Yes, we did, John, don’t you say that!”

“We never had a chance! It was too much running and adventure and danger and insanity for any calm.” John waves a hand at the far wall. “You couldn’t even play Cluedo without stabbing the game board.”

“That game is –“

“You just don’t know how to be in a relationship, even a friendship, so how could you ever figure out what love is? How would you be able to do that?”

Sherlock steps back, a feeling which he categorizes as ‘hurt’ suddenly in his chest. “Then let me try.”

“What do you think those two years together were?” John shakes his head, such a sad expression on his face. 

Sherlock growls with frustration. “You can’t just say no!”

“I wanted you back for a long time, Sherlock, but it’s too late now.”

Sherlock scowls and points at Mary. “So it’s Mary instead then? You love her?”

“Sherlock…” John says with a warning tone. 

“You never loved any of the others!” Sherlock continues. “So what is so different now?”

“I’m different because I was here,” Mary snaps abruptly, taking a step toward Sherlock. “I didn’t meet John when you were here, when the two of you were happy and running around doing all the things John has told me about. No, I met him when he would break off lunch dates because he needed to change the flowers on your grave. I met him when he’d forget he was talking to me because a memory of you suddenly tore him away. I met him when blank was his normal facial expression. I’m different because I took the time to find out who he really was under all the pain you caused and then I still stayed!”

Sherlock stares at her for a long pause then breathes in slowly. “Maybe so, Dr. Morstan, but I’m back now and he doesn’t need you anymore.”

“We need each other,” Mary corrects, “that’s what love is.”

Sherlock wants to say, ‘I know,’ but it won’t come out of his mouth.

Instead John puts a hand on Mary’s arm. “It’s okay.”

She turns to him. “You never told… you never told me you… you felt…about him.”

John smiles. “Did we really need to add another thing to my layers of baggage?”

Mary chuckles lightly. “I guess not.”

They gaze at each other silently and Sherlock feels his presence diminishing.

“What do… what do you want then, John?” Sherlock asks haltingly.

John stares at the carpet for a moment then looks up at Sherlock, face certain. “Right now, for you to leave.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You’ve told me to leave enough.”

“Please,” John says.

Sherlock stares at John, glances at Mary who doesn’t even appear angry anymore, then back to John. He wants to scream – he never feels this fractured or torn or scattered – he wants to grab John’s hand to pull him, to run away, and leave every hurt memory and every person who has taken Sherlock’s place in John’s life. Instead he turns and walks away down the stairs. He makes it as far as the very bottom step before his knees give out and he collapses into a heap.

–––––

Sherlock opens his eyes to a touch on his hair.

“Morning.” Mary smiles down at him, purse on her shoulder. “Sleep here all night or did you let yourself in again early?”

Sherlock thinks up five sarcastic replies to her question but instead says, “All night.”

Mary nods. “Yeah.” Then she leans over him and pulls a mug of coffee off the end of the banister where Sherlock hadn’t paid any attention to it before. “Here, wake yourself up.”

Sherlock sits up straight and takes the coffee from her though it smells like too much milk. He raises an eyebrow and she chuckles.

“Okay, so I added milk. There’s no sugar though.”

“Charming,” Sherlock mutters.

Mary stands up straight again and adjusts the strap of her purse. “I’m off to work now. John’s not.” Then she turns and walks out the front door without another word.

Sherlock listens to her footsteps quickly fade, the sounds of morning traffic outside the door, and up above he hears the quiet noises of one person in an empty flat. Sherlock puts the mug down on the step then stands up. When he walks into the flat he hears John moving in the kitchen; dishes, water, what sounds like eggs. Sherlock walks across the carpet then stands in the kitchen door.

“John?”

John glances up, obviously not surprised at all to see Sherlock there. He looks Sherlock up and down then sighs. “Take off your coat, all right? You don’t need to live in it.”

Sherlock frowns but takes off his coat anyway and drapes it over the brown chair next to the fireplace where John’s old chair used to sit. He steps into the kitchen, notices the clean counters, all new appliances and not one piece of laboratory equipment to be found. John waves a hand at the kitchen table set for breakfast as he spreads jam on a piece of toast. In the center of the table rests a dish of eggs while two pieces of buttered toast wait on the plate in front of the chair John indicated for Sherlock.

“I’m not hung –“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John chides, adding jam to his second piece of toast. “You don’t need to be thinking quickly now and you probably haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. Sit.”

So Sherlock sits.

John turns around and places the two pieces of jam toast on his plate. He pulls out his chair then sits down. John takes a bite of one piece of toast and watches Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at his plate but does not pick up the toast or fork any eggs onto his plate.

“So?” John says, as he chews. “Here we are.”

“John, I didn’t come back to London for Mycroft or Lestrade; I didn’t come back because it’s the only place I can live or because it’s the only place I can do my work. I came back for you.” Sherlock puts his hands palm together on the table and leans closer over the food. “You can’t ask me to just stay away from you now when you are the reason I am here.”

“I’m not asking you to stay away.”

“Then what?”

John puts down his piece of toast. “I’m asking you to be my friend again.”

“We still are friends. We’re… we’re more than that.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are!” Sherlock insists, smacking his hands on the table top.

“Sherlock,” John reaches out to cover Sherlock’s one hand with his and the touch feels like electricity, “we’re closer friends than any pair of people I know but there’s a line.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “There doesn’t have to be.”

“I meant what I said last night, Sherlock. I loved you and you will always be important to me but I am in love with Mary now and I am going to marry her.”

Sherlock pulls his hand away and skids back his chair. He crosses his arms and his frown could not be any more severe. 

“Sherlock, we can still be friends, we can even still do cases together now and then, if you want me to, of course. But things are different after three years, after you dying, after all of that, after you coming back. There is no way it wasn’t going to change. It doesn’t mean it’s worse.”

“Oh,” Sherlock grumbles and his chest feels very tight.

“No, Sherlock, it’s just different.” John touches the edge of his plate but he doesn’t pick up his toast again. “I do want you in my life. I lost you once; I don’t need to do it twice.”

Sherlock stares at the edge of the kitchen table – dark wood, solid not particle board, stained for water resistance. He sees a chip at the far right, most likely from knocking against the wall at some point or a kitchen cabinet.

“Sherlock.”

“I… I don’t…” Sherlock breathes through his nose and peers up at John. “I don’t want to… lose you again either.”

John smiles. “Good.”

Sherlock nods stiffly and picks up one of his pieces of toast.

“You know,” John starts as Sherlock takes a bite. “You saved me those five years ago when we first met, saved me from myself. And then Mary did the same thing the second time.”

“So I should accept her?”

John shakes his head. “You can feel and think whatever you want about Mary, Sherlock; I know you would anyway no matter what I say. Just know that you two are the most important people to me and I want to keep both of you. Okay?”

Sherlock swallows two more quick bites and puts down the piece of toast. His chest hurts and his mind swirls and he certainly will not smile but Sherlock knows from hundreds of mornings and afternoons and late, late nights with John that this is the end of the line, this is the final point he must accept because the arguments are done. John pushes and gives and folds and understands all up to a point. This is the point, take it or leave it.

“Okay, John.”

–––––

The wedding of Dr. John Hamish Watson and Dr. Mary Edith Morstan boasts less than a hundred guests, mostly family with two dozen friends on her side and less than that on his. The ceremony takes fifteen minutes, ending with blowing bubbles instead of throwing rice – Mary’s idea no doubt. The reception hall glows with strings of lights around the ceiling and large star center pieces on each table, red and black colors to match John’s uniform.

(Sherlock will remember the cut of the uniform, each button, each embellishment, and how clear the vision of the distinguished army doctor appeared that day for the rest of his life).

Harry gives a toast – mostly sober – about John’s fall from bachelor grace while Mary’s youngest sister talks about their childhood and happiness as adults. The bride’s father calls them “a perfect union of doctors.” Everyone toasts then continues to clink their glasses every five minutes afterward to get a kiss out of the couple.

Sherlock sits in the back at a mostly empty table of no show guests and speaks to no one, growling at the few who try to engage him until they escape out of fear.

John looks as happy as any time they ran through London streets side by side, home again breathless with laughter, shouting with joy when the case was closed. Sherlock wants to tell someone, ‘I made him that happy once, I was there first’ but there is no one to tell – no one who would believe him or care. Sherlock swallows champagne and thinks maybe, actually, John looks even happier than back then.

After two hours of dancing – the first dance, the father/mother dances, as well as a ridiculous round of instructional dance songs for fifteen minutes – and the guests reduced by at least half, Sherlock asks the groom for a dance.

“Congratulations,” Sherlock says with John in his arms, Sherlock leading the dance.

John laughs. “You know, you don’t have to be happy for me. I know you’re not.”

“Not really.”

John laughs again. “Thank you.”

“I… I am pleased though that you are... happy.”

“Ah.” John tilts his head. “Well, good.”

They dance around the floor to the slow tune, only a few other couples still twisting with them. Sherlock hears Mary’s throaty giggle somewhere off to their left followed by the hoots and claps of her bridesmaids. Over John’s head he sees Harry nearly passed out at the head table. 

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and he looks down. “Thank you for coming.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Maybe.”

Sherlock purses his lips but refrains from a retort. Instead he pulls John into a slightly dramatic twirl around the floor making John chuckle. Sherlock holds John tight and John doesn’t stop him. They turn and step to the music, something sappy and stereotypically wedding. Sherlock realizes he cannot consciously bring up the last time he danced with someone, maybe never; maybe this will be the first and last time.

Then the song ends, changing into something bouncier so the bridesmaids squeal and run back on the dance floor. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand and they pull apart. Sherlock makes himself smile for John’s sake and John smiles back.

Then suddenly John goes up on his toes and gives Sherlock a hard kiss on his cheek. “Honeymoon will be a week.” He drops down again and steps back, same smile on his face. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back?”

Sherlock breathes slowly in and out, then nods. “I promise. I’m not leaving again.”


End file.
